


And This All Bears Repeating

by blueinkedbones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Crack, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, everything will make sense eventually, oops I spilled angst all over my crack fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueinkedbones/pseuds/blueinkedbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don't know how—<em>accurate</em> your show is,” Derek says, and Hoechlin practically facepalms. “Stiles, he's, when he saw you—”</p>
<p>“He thought he was losing it,” Dylan realizes. “That's kind of in the next half of the season too.”</p>
<p>“He's not <em>losing it</em>,” Derek says tightly. “He saw you. You're real. He just—”</p>
<p>“Freaked out,” Dylan says, glad to be helpful somehow. “Because of his mom.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Derek says.</p>
<p> <br/>Or, five times the cast and characters of Teen Wolf invaded each others' lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mets VS Padres, San Diego, California 8/03/2012

"You've never been to a baseball game," Stiles repeats, astounded. "Never."

It's a unique moment of peace in the middle of the chaos that is the life of a werewolf's best friend. Isaac and Erica are sprawled together, taking up most of the couch, forcing Stiles closer to Derek than he would have necessarily placed himself. On the torn-up blue recliner, Boyd leans forward and shouts at the TV.

After the train car was wrecked, Derek found himself a new semi-creepy abandoned hotspot: the former Beacon Hills library, gutted for renovation and, thanks to budget cuts, left collecting dust ever since. Lydia nearly volunteered to move in too, knees weak and cheeks flushed at the thought of _all those books_ , until she realized there was nowhere to plug in her curling iron. Like most of Derek's previous haunts, the place has no functioning gas or electricity. Derek manages, and the pack drags in rejected furniture off sidewalks and lamps and decor from yard sales, so the place isn't as much a Broody Werewolf Lair of Darkness as a Really Extensive Clubhouse Full of Books and Gaudy Junk. In theory, Lydia said once, they could pull up the floorboards and screw around with the wiring and really get this place up and running. _In theory_ , Stiles countered, _this whole place could go up in flames with one_ —He caught a flicker of something on Derek's face then, and backtracked into an endless, tangent-filled monologue. _In theory_ , he thought, mouth still rattling on, _I'm an asshole._

Boyd, alone, managed to hook up the TV, station a beat-up blue recliner in front of it, and extend the closest neighbors' protected WiFi. Goals accomplished, he sat content, ignoring Lydia's demands for an explanation of his process. Since then, Isaac and Erica teamed up to push and shove a cheap but decently comfortable couch in place beside it, and the place became a home.

Sort of.

Derek shrugs.

"But you have a favorite team, right?" Stiles asks. "Come on."

"Mets are alright," Derek says. "Considering."

Stiles groans. "You're joking. Please tell me you're joking."

"What?"

Stiles breathes an exaggerated sigh. "You live in _California_. You've gotta root for the home team, dude, I mean, that's just the rules."

"I lived in New York for a while," Derek says. "No one ever tried to kill me there."

Stiles tips his head. "Okay, that's fair. But we're going to a game. You, me, Scott… eating overpriced corn dogs, cheering from the sidelines… it'll be like lacrosse, but with you and overpriced corn dogs. We're doing this."

Derek doesn't argue.

 

**Mets VS Padres, San Diego, California 8/03/2012**

"You made it!" Stiles crows, returning to his seat to find Scott sitting with Derek,who seems to have gotten into the spirit of things: his shoulders are tension-free, his signature exhausted-by-your-antics expression AWOL. Scott said he'd try to come, but Stiles'd kind of assumed he'd be ditched for Allison again. Apparently not.

Scowl-free Derek, Allison-free Scott… Things are looking up, in a big way.

"Dude, you look different, man," Scott says, by way of greeting. "Did you buzz your head? Like, since we we got here?"

Derek bounces his eyebrows high, smirks. "Hair and makeup's gonna love this." He claps Stiles on the back, his grip claw-less and friendly. It kind of freaks Stiles out. "Mets are up."

"Shockeeeeer," Scott laughs.

"Uh huh," Stiles says, like Derek's sudden outbreak of smiling is totally ordinary. Derek's smiles, Stiles assumes, having minimal experience with them, are easily scared off. Like a deer. You don't want to spook it. "That's great. Rub it in my face."

"What the fuck?" Scott says.

"No, I get it," Derek says, another huge, fang-less grin pretty much splitting his face in two. Aaaaaand this is officially the weirdest thing in the history of weird things, ever. "Method acting." His palm finds Stiles' shoulder; he pulls Stiles against him. His touch is different. There's no excessive, wolfy force, just a hug-and-drag. Which, huh. Derek is hugging him. Willingly. His choice. He smiles a bright white grin at the incredibly weirded-out teenager, the corners of his kaleidoscope-colored eyes crinkling as he says, "And I get to hang out with Stiles!"

"Fuck, really? That's awesome, bro," Scott says, sounding nothing like himself either. Maybe Stiles is dreaming. Maybe he's finally having that mental breakdown everyone's been waiting for. "Just total improv." Scott sounds high. Maybe they're all high. Maybe Stiles is high. He's never been high before. Is this what it feels like? His mouth is pretty dry, and his head is kind of buzzing, but Stiles kind of assumed it wouldn't make him feel like everything was wrong, like he's gonna have a panic attack in the middle of a baseball game. "I'm gonna try," Scott says, oblivious, as usual, to Stiles' head-spinning existential crisis. "Okay, uuuuuuuuuuuum… Crap! Now I can't think of anything!" Suddenly his eyes light up. "Okay, wait no. Here goes, okay? Try not to pee your pants! This is gonna be awesome!" Disclaimer in place, he widens his eyes comically and growls, "'Allison!'"

Derek cracks up. Stiles takes a moment to let that sink in. Derek Hale is _laughing_. Like a normal person. A really chill normal person. Like… like Matthew McConaughey, but wearing a shirt. "What do we even need Jeff for? We've got this."

"Jeff?" Stiles repeats, and Derek grins again. "Right. No Jeff in Teen Wolf universe."

"Teen Wolf?" Stiles gives up on logic. "Sure. Whatever." Maybe it's the Adderall, keeping him focused, refusing to let him chill. Which, come on, cut a guy some slack, universe. If Derek freakin' Hale can mellow out, why can't Stiles?

"You're blowing my mind right now." Derek's face is inches from Stiles'. So apparently the lack of personal space isn't gonna change, ever. The look on his face is kind of making Stiles feel emotions, though. Weird, weird emotions. Because, hello, Derek Hale is staring into his eyes, and he looks completely freaking _awed_ , and—Stiles is just a little bit confused, in a case where _a little bit confused_ means _totally fucking out of his depth_.

"Seriously," Derek says, "You're amazing."

Yeah, Stiles is pretty sure this is a mental breakdown. So, okay, he's having a mental breakdown. At least he realizes he's having a mental breakdown. That's a plus, right? Acceptance being the first step to recovery, or something like that.

Shit, he's having a mental breakdown!

Panic rising in his throat, Stiles closes his eyes.

"Funny joke," a very angry werewolf growls in his ear, dragging him by the shoulder to two empty seats and pushing him into one of them. "For five minutes I actually thought—"

Stiles opens his eyes. Ahhhh, relief. Derek—normal, real, grumpy Derek—is getting ready to threaten him with some kind of bodily harm. Actual Derek, not crazy hallucination Derek. He lets out a long breath.

"What's wrong with you?" Derek says. "You smell—"

_Crazy_ , Stiles supposes, his relief crumbling. "Oh my god, shut up and watch the game," he snaps.

Surprisingly, Derek does.

Minutes later, Stiles spots them again, two rows up: Derek and Scott, and a long-haired Stiles joining them.

He looks at the real Derek staring off at nothing beside him, at the shadows under his eyes, the flat line of his mouth, at his stress-knotted shoulders. That's real. Stiles knows what's real.

Dad doesn't have to hear about this. Stiles can handle it.


	2. The Least Eventful Halloween Ever, Beacon Hill, Laguna Niguel, California, 10/31/2012

**The Least Eventful Halloween Ever, Beacon Hill, Laguna Niguel, California, 10/31/2012**

In a town full of werewolves, Halloween night should be a pretty big deal. Well, Stiles thinks so, anyway. All the lore, the myths, the legends—if shape-shifters can completely defy physics, if magic fairy ash is real, shouldn't All Hallows Eve live up to the hype?

Apparently, though, it doesn't get more exciting than a bucket of fun-sized Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and incredibly shitty holiday TV. Scott's out with Allison, surprise surprise. Derek's slinking around with his pack somewhere, trying not to get killed. Dad's doing the newly-reinstated Sheriff thing, watching out for teenagers with toilet paper and eggs and something to prove.

Which leaves Stiles on the couch, bouncing his leg absentmindedly and flicking through fifty shades of _this is your life, Stiles Stilinski_.

 _What life_ , he snaps back at himself, changing the channel four times without looking. Yeah, he talks to himself. Shit happens. Not the kind of shit that makes everyone flood him with research requests, apparently, but the kind of shit that confirms any doubts anyone might have about how much of a loser he is.

He's handling it fine. He knows what's real, there haven't been any episodes since the baseball game, he's not foaming at the mouth. He's just watching TV, alone, on Halloween night.

Who knew a mental break could be this boring?

Disgusted, he throws the remote across the room, gives the TV one last chance to wow him.

Yeah, no dice. It's some old Disney kids show rerun, one of those idiotic sing-along programs with the lyrics on the screen for maximum irritation. What kind of parent puts their kid on a show like that? No way any of these kids made it out of middle school alive. This is the shit therapists buy yachts with. If therapists buy yachts. None of his have ever mentioned a yacht. A helicopter, maybe. Private jet. Small third-world country.

His second-hand embarrassment and overwhelming laziness combat each other as he stares at the remote on the floor, then back at the Jerry Springer guest-in-training program. A terribly animated pumpkin dances above a chipmunk-cheeked little kid doing cartwheels.

"Oh my god."

Stiles' heart slams against his chest.

It's Derek.

No, it's obviously episode number two of _He's Losing His Fucking Mind, Starring Stiles Stilinski_.

Except this time, Stiles has the internet at his disposal. Five minutes later, he's got an IMDB page swearing his sanity. Tyler Hoechlin, actor. He's Derek minus the fangs. He's baseball park Derek. Stiles is actually not insane. Probably. Unless it's a _My Bloody Valentine_ situation, the disappointing remake version, and he's just put up the site to show himself he isn't crazy, or something.

But it probably isn't, and wasn't that guy possessed by a ghost, or something? That ending hadn't made any freaking sense, actually.

Well, there's only one thing left to do. The second-hand embarrassment turns into slightly sadistic enjoyment as Stiles calls Derek on cell phone he'd bought the werewolf for Christmas.

"Stiles." Derek answers on the first ring. "What's wrong? Is it Scott?"

"Nothing's wrong," Stiles drawls, smirking at mini-Derek/Tyler making an absolute fool of himself on the TV. "Everything is really, _reaaaaaaaally_ fantastic."

"I don't get calls when things are fantastic," Derek growls.

"You really don't," Stiles realizes, unwrapping a Reese's and stuffing it in his mouth. "Well, that's depressing."

"You called for a reason, Stiles?" Derek asks, finally. "I've got—"

"People to threaten, places to lurk, an Alpha's job is never done," Stiles says, chipper as ever. "Turn on the TV."

Surprisingly, Derek doesn't argue.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"Only the best thing ever," Stiles says, shoving another peanut butter cup down his throat, his face monopolized by the biggest lopsided grin in the history of time. "I'm never going to take you seriously again. This is the moment. You could like, wolf out in front of my face and throw me into a wall and I'd be like, nope, can't be threatened by the Disney sing-along kid." He gapes at the screen. "Oh my god, mini-you just said 'mama's soup surprise.' Oh my god, you're adorable. Oh my _goooood_."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh no you don't." Stiles' fingers start to tap a rapid beat against his leg. "I am not spending another two months thinking I'm losing my mind."

"What?" Derek sounds almost panicked. "Stiles, what's going on? Where are you?"

"Home," Stiles says, his temporary good mood fading fast. "Alone. Yup. Home alone. Practicing my Macaulay Culkin face. Booby trapping the house. Like the first one. He wasn't even home in the second one. You'd think that'd be kind of integral, considering the title. Third one had Scarlett Johansson, so, fine. Fourth one sucked big time. Yeah, Scott's off doing his thing. Allison. Uh. Not _doing_ Allison—although, actually, he probably is. So I'm watching TV like every other friendless total loser does on Halloween night. And look who's on—"

"I'm outside," Derek interrupts. There are two short, sharp knocks on the door. "Let me in."

"Oh my god," Stiles says as he's slammed into a wall by Derek Hale and looked up and down and _sniffed_. "Okay, fine, you win. I take it back. You're freakin' terrifying. Okay? …Is there a reason you're not wearing a shirt?"

"It's easier to run without it," Derek says. Stiles nods.

"Feel the wind through your chest hair. Fantastic. Is there a reason you're sniffing my neck?"

Derek backs off, takes his hands from Stiles' shoulders. "You don't smell high," he says. "You're not hurt."

"Yeah, because getting body-slammed by werewolves is fun for all ages." Stiles gripes, peeling himself off the wall. "I'm human, okay? Velocity plus impact equals pain. Very painful pain."

"Sorry," Derek says, and Stiles starts to rethink the whole not-going-insane theory. "You wanted to show me something."

"Well, it's over now," Stiles says, muting the TV. "But look at this."

Grabbing his laptop with one hand, he knots his fingers around Derek's wrist and drags the werewolf to the couch with him. With five taps on his keyboard and a few encouraging mutters of _Come on_ to the gods of speedy internet connections, he pulls up the doppelganger's IMDB page.

"'Tyler Hoechlin,'" Derek reads. "Who's he?"

Stiles looks at Tyler's profile photo, at Derek, at the photo, at Derek. He gapes.

"You, obviously." Okay, this isn't a _My Bloody Valentine 3D_ situation at all. This is that episode of _Bones_ where Brennan thought the dead body looked like her and nobody else did because she was just projecting her fears of her own mortality and insignificance. Except without the fear of mortality and insignificance part. "C'mon," Stiles pleads, panic rising in his chest. "That's your face, okay? That's not—I'm not crazy!"

"Of course you're not," Derek says, looking alarmed. Like, _help, there's a crazy person sitting next to me saying he's not crazy_ alarmed. He looks at the man on the screen again. "You're right. He looks like me."

"Oh my god, shut _up_!" Stiles shouts, shoving Derek and the laptop away and jumping to his feet. "Don't just lie to make me feel better, you asshole!" He's shaking so hard his vision blurs.

"Okay," Derek says slowly. "Okay." He's careful as he approaches Stiles, almost timid. Derek Hale is afraid of Stiles. It's kind of funny.

It's not funny.

Stiles' throat closes up; the room goes airless, and he can't remember how to breathe, anyway. He can't see, he can't think, can't remember which way is up, and he's falling, he should be falling—

Two strong hands catch him by the shoulders, hold him in place.

"Stiles," Derek says, so close the teenager can feel the werewolf's warm, slow, even breaths on his face, "I know. You're not crazy. I know."

"I think I might be," Stiles says, his voice low and bitter and resigned. "I think—"

"You're not," Derek insists, palms tight and claw-less around Stiles's shoulders. "You're not. I know you're not."

"What if I am, though?" Stiles says. "My dad, he'll—"

"He'd figure something out. I'd figure something out," Derek says. "But you're not. You're fine. You're _Stiles_."

He says the name like it means something other than fuck-up. He says the name like it means something good.

 _Derek_ says that.

There's no way this is real.

"My dad," Stiles repeats, wondering how much of this he can trust, wondering if he can trust any of it, wondering who's holding him up, wondering if he's even still standing. "Someone has to check on my dad. All the time. Make sure he's okay."

"Your father's fine," Derek says, if it's Derek talking, if it's anyone talking. "You're fine."

"He won't be." The lump in Stiles throat grows and grows. "He just forgave me for getting him fired, for—He'll start drinking again, he won't stop. Someone has to make sure when I can't make sure. He doesn't have anyone else to make sure, and I can't—"

"Stiles," Derek says, and it sounds like _Calm down_ , it sounds like _Stay with me_ , it sounds like _You're okay_. "I'll make sure. If it comes to that, I'll make sure."

"Good," Stiles says, and breathes.

 

They sit on the floor, backs against the wall, Stiles and his imaginary friend, and they talk about things Stiles never talks about, would never talk about with a real person.

"My mom," Stiles says, deconstructing a stain on the wallpaper across the room like a Rorschach test, "she was a normal mom."

Derek doesn't say anything, just listens, and Stiles tries not to remember that he isn't really there.

"Better than normal," he says, pulling a Reese's wrapper apart and rolling the strips together aimlessly. "She used to make up stories. She had this one she used to tell me all the time," his tone turns almost wistful, for a second, then flashes back to low, tired, "with this kid named—" he stops, swallows, stares at the wall. He needs to get a grip, he thinks, needs to get his freaking shit together, because if his dad comes home, finds him like this—

And he stops, and he stays stopped, and Derek, and Derek's shadow, and the things in the dirt on the wall, and the rest of it, all of it, feels as real as anything. If he can just stop looking close, if he can just stop realizing the edges don't match up, that Derek Hale doesn't sit on the floor and listen to teenagers bitch about their feelings, if he can just stop fucking _thinking_ , everything will be fine. Everything will be perfect.

Till someone finds him on the floor, screaming, pulling his hair out, trying to end it all. And someone will, probably, because he can't stop thinking. Any other way, his ticker still ticking, his brain will keep dancing it's hyperactive little jig, and the only way to stop it all, to really stop it all—

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

And he starts again, saying anything that comes into his head, because the more he talks, the less he thinks. His hands rattle around the wrapper. His fingers slide into the creases and tears them open.

"When I got diagnosed, she picked me up from school in the middle of the day, and we went driving, just the two of us." He almost smiles slightly, thinking about that day, but his face won't take direction. His brain keeps rattling on, and he finds the silhouettes of cartoon mice and ducks in the stain of the wall, and he peels the wrapper in his hands, he searches for things to do with his hands, things to dissect with his hands and reassemble with his hands, and he keeps talking. "And she said it was normal, she said I'd take something to help focus, that's all, and that there was nothing to get nervous about. My dad, he didn't like the idea of me taking anything, so she would give it to me where he couldn't see. She said we were like spies, secret agents, you know? And we have to get the package to it's destination, and no one can know. The fate of the world depends on it."

A small, sharp noise comes out of him then, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He drops the shredded wrapper, rubs his thumb under his eye. He's proving it, now, to himself, to Derek, to anyone watching him. He wonders where he really is, if he's seeing things all wrong, if Derek isn't here, and he isn't here, where is he? He has to be somewhere. He wonders who else is with him, if anyone is with him. That's what he needs, he needs more than fucking anything to open his eyes and see his dad staring at him like he's a ghost. Like he's her ghost.

He knows he is; he always knew it was a matter of time. Time tickticktickticking, and his hyperactive brain goes into overdrive, and this time, it's not a panic attack, it's not a nightmare, it's not a fit of rambling, it's his sanity tumbling away from him, unwinding, like a ball of yarn falling down an infinitely long flight of stairs.

"And then one day I come home from school," he says, and he's here and he's not here, he's here on the floor talking to Derek, talking to Derek's shadow, talking to his imaginary friend, talking to himself, and he's not here, he's there, putting his key in the door, ten years old and starving and expecting Mom to have supper ready, expecting some comment about the briefcase slapped down and abandoned in the hall, expecting anything but—

She's screaming. She's on the floor, and she's screaming, and it's the worst sound, the most terrifying sound he's ever heard.

"And she's on the floor, and she's just screaming. My dad is holding her down and he turns to me and he's like, 'call 911!' And I don't know what's going on, I just stand there. I just stand there, and he says—He says, 'Are you crazy? You want your mother to die? Pick up the phone and call!'"

He stops again—

—starts again.

"So I call, and they say, 'what's your emergency?' And I can't get the words out, I just start rambling. I just started panicking, I didn't know what to say. So I'm just standing there, wasting time. I could have just said, my mom's sick, and the address. That's all I had to say. But I couldn't think. I just kept looking at her, and looking at my dad. And she's screaming, and fighting him, and my dad just looks at me. And he grabs the phone, and I lose my balance, and I'm on my ass on the floor, looking up at him, and he says two sentences and he's done. And he just looks down at me. He just looks right through me. Like he can't believe what a fuck-up his kid is. What a hyperactive little fuck-up I am." He finds a twisted face in the stained wallpaper, or is it a cat? It's a cat, a cat, it has to be a cat. It has to be something smooth and soft and harmless, it's on his wall for fucks sake, he can't handle any more twisted faces, or sad clowns. Or whateverthefucks want to burrow into his head and pull the rest of his sanity out. And he's here, glaring at dirt on a wall, and he knows that. He knows. He just cant be sure. He just needs to be sure, and that one percent of doubt is pulling his sanity train off the tracks. "And he grabbed my arm and pulled me up, and we went to the hospital."

His imaginary friend slides closer to him. They sit shoulder to shoulder, and Stiles almost feels like Derek could be real, could be the warm strong thing against his arm.

He doesn't look, just in case he's wrong.

He looks, just in case he's right.

And Derek's there, he's there, he's solid and real, blue-green eyes wide and cheekbones sharp and lips pressed together and so full of bruised blood they're practically purple, and of course he's shirtless, of course, because Stiles imaginary friend has to be warm and tense and so fuckable it makes him sick. Real Derek, running shirtless, panicking with worry, sitting like a stone and listening and caring, locking his palms around Stiles' shoulders and purring that it will be okay? It's a joke, a hilarious joke. He knows it's a joke, but he can still feel the warmth, the weight against his arm. He knows what's real, he knows, he _knows_ , but his brain _won't fucking listen_.

He keeps talking, tries to ignore the ringing in his ears.

"They had to tie her down and put something in her mouth so she wouldn't bite her tongue off," he says, and he's three places at once, or four, splitting and splitting. He's on the floor with Derek, and he's on the floor with his mom, and he's on the floor alone, and he's on the floor, losing his mind behind his hands, and Dad just looks at him, just looks at him with that _look_. And whichever one he is, he keeps talking. "And I didn't see her for a long time, but I saw my dad come back from visiting her, and just going into the bathroom, and turning on the shower, and the sink, and just falling apart, I could hear him—"

He takes a deep, shaky breath. Pulls his knees up close to his chest, hooks them in place with an arm. Runs his palm over his face.

"We went to the hospital to visit her, and she was fine again, she was Mom again." He can just pick one, just pick one and pretend, just stop thinking and questioning and just have one. Just sit here and be there with Mom, screaming, fighting; just sit here and talk with a wet dream that couldn't ever be real; just sit here and be alone; just sit here and be found by Dad, and watch him fall apart again.

"They had her on like six different things," he says, because he doesn't know what will happen if, when, he stands up, leaves this lie. So he doesn't. He sits here, shoulder to shoulder with a figment of his imagination, and he keeps talking. "And she was tired, and pale, and too skinny, and she looked sick. But she knew what she was saying. She was making sense." Stiles fidgets with his shirttails, folding them over and straightening them out. "And my dad sent me out to get two things of Hershey's Kisses from the vending machine. One for me and one for her." His hands are trembling, he's trembling. "And I came back and heard my dad talking to her and he said—" Stiles curls his shaking hands into fists, uncurls them, locks his fingers together. "He said, 'We need you. I need you. _I can't handle him alone_.'"

And Stiles just sits, eyes half-closed and full and empty behind his hands, and stops talking.

Derek says nothing. Which, of course. He's not real.

Because Stiles always knew this would happen sooner or later. Always knew one day he'd stop making sense.

And he'd scream.

And he'd pull his hair out.

And he'd bang his head on the wall so hard he'd get a concussion. So hard he'd fall down and never get up.

And a nurse would find him, and a doctor would sit Dad down.

_I'm afraid we have some bad news._

And Dad would fall apart.

But not yet.

Not yet.

He scrubs his palm over his eyes, blinks until the stain on the wall is crystal-clear.

"You should go," he tells Derek, and laughs a little bit, inside his head, for trying to send away things that aren't there in the first place.

But Derek doesn't go.

He sits shoulder to shoulder with Stiles, and he opens his mouth.

And he says, "My uncle—"

And he says, "Peter—"

And he says, "He used to pull pranks on all of us. Laura had to cut off all her hair after—"

And he says, "He had a daughter."

And he says, "Mackenzie. She was six."

And he says, "She was human."

And Stiles, Stiles closes his mouth.

Stiles stops thinking.

Stiles listens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The program Stiles saw on TV is this: (imdb.com/title/tt1668197/)


	3. Comic-con, Pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a new chapter? it's like a miracle! the power of reviews, i tell you, it's amazing.
> 
> warning for ableist thoughts regarding one's own mental health. no dylans in this fic actually represent dylans outside of this fic, because it is fiction, and also i am sorry.

At sixteen, Dylan checks himself into a mental hospital as a joke. Dr. Frank calls his parents, and Dr. Merchant does an intake interview for the forty-five minutes it takes them to come pick their kid up.

It's just long enough for Dylan to figure out that some part of him isn't kidding.

But hey. He's always been good at lying. Kinda comes with the territory. So he laughs it off with his friends, apologizes to his parents, does the whole routine of definitely-not-crazy dude who's just a little insensitive. It kinda stings how quickly everyone buys it, but what's the alternative? Admit the anxiety isn't rational for his nice cushy California life, that he probably shouldn't have to smoke weed just to chill out on a basic, sober level, that he truly is the fuckin' weirdo he's suspected he is since elementary (my dear Watson, haha), feeling like he does more lying than telling the truth most days, most _basic social interactions_? Like he needs to broadcast that any louder. Like the awkward spaz pheromones or whatever that his body naturally produces aren't already cluing everyone's subconscious in on how freaking weird Dylan O'Brien is, like _literally_. On a molecular level.

So whatever. He handles it, keeps making stupid YouTube videos in his room like he's the next Donald Glover, and keeps channeling his weird anxious frantic energy into sports. Baseball, mostly, but anything with a good tolerance for running and flailing works. And when all else fails, there's always the laugh. No, the _Laugh_. Capital L Laugh. Not like a tight little nervous laugh that just makes everything worse, but the mouth wide-open, shoulders loose, head thrown back laugh. You have to lose yourself in the laugh, man, you have to commit, or no one's gonna buy it. You're out in the cold, just said the stupidest thing in the world, everyone's looking at you like you should probably just kill yourself or something, that's when you let it go: the Laugh. In all it's beautiful fuckin' crazy glory, spasming like an epileptic at a laser show. And everyone, without fail, _everyone_ loses it with you.

It's like a yawn, y'know? Except instead of making everyone drowsy, you've convinced them you're not an asshole or a freak but just a guy with a weird sense of humor who knows how to laugh at himself.

Comedy's just a natural progression. Teen Wolf, that's like this crazy freak accident that just keeps happening, people taking him seriously and like, being his _fan_ and stuff. Girls going back to his little YouTube videos and watching him hump a Christmas tree and freaking out about how _hot_ he is, people wanting to see him take his _shirt_ off. It's insane. Fucking Kevin Smith spending like ten minutes talking about his potential on his podcast, it's—

But the thing is. About that.

Well no, not that, specifically, but comedy?

Comedy, you find your groove, flail around, try a couple different things, at the end of the day you're goofing around, feeling kinda buzzed on like social contact that didn't suck, screwing around with everyone on set like you're home, like you've got nothing to worry about, ever, and what were you even buggin' out about all this time?

The serious acting, though, that's like tapping into everything that ever made you dark and weird and, like, haunted. That's getting too easy, these days. Not like it's easy playing that part but it's too easy sliding into that part of his head. Maybe just a little bit harder to climb out of it every time.

Which, yeah, that's maybe getting to be a problem.

Still, as long as there's a good balance of comedy, he's probably fine. Give him one of those scenes with Hoechlin where he's got a thousand new lines flying out of his mouth and this grin twitching the side of it because Tyler tries _so_ hard not to break, it's the most hilarious thing ever when he does. And he does, so often, at Dylan's little adlibs and goofs. It's like, how do you not feed into that? So Hoechlin scenes, scenes with Derek, they're like little anchors, to use a Teen Wolf term. And fans can make what they want out of it, Dylan doesn't care, as long as it means Jeff keeps them coming.

Well, Tyler's team maybe minds, only because his career's not doing as hot as it should be, and he can't be, like, limiting himself to playing the girl, or whatever the weird logic was. The bottom line is Tyler has to scale back the gushing compliments, and be more public with his girlfriend—a bunch of stuff like that. Whatever, Dylan's not interested in being a career-killer, it's cool. He doesn't need Hoechlin hitting on him, he just needs the scenes, y'know?

Except Stiles keeps getting darker, and suddenly he's having a full-on mental breakdown, and there isn't a Derek scene to be seen. Like, all season.

Handling that... yeah, that's getting to be something.

Right now the strategy is packing his schedule so tight he doesn't have time to think. He's barely got fifteen minutes to grab a nap on some days. But whatever, the less time spent in his head, the better. Even his agent wants him cutting back, catching a breath, but tough shit.

Which means around two movies, half a season of Teen Wolf, and enough press to make his head spin, Dylan's doing Comic-con. Two panels, actually—one for Teen Wolf, one for the Maze Runner, because yeah, he doesn't want any free time. Jeff's writing a nonstop nightmare for Stiles this season, and it's not like Dylan can phone it in from sunny all-cool mind island, you know?

He's maybe joked to a reporter about checking into a mental hospital. For fun. Because it could be funny, or interesting, good acting experience, he doesn't really remember the reason. She gave him a look, and he gave her the Laugh and she laughed and moved on to something else.

He's maybe pitched scenes, to Hoechlin, to two different interviewers, to Jeff. But Jeff writes what he wants, and what he wants is Stiles freaking out, every day, all day, so—so fine. So Dylan's acting even with the cameras off, acting normal. Or him-normal, anyway, and it's fine. For four months he isn't Stiles at all but he's still playing heavy, running hard against the grain—and wah wah wah, actor kid's getting stuck in his head, get a fucking grip, who the fuck is he anyway?

In an astounding plot twist, that doesn't help.

What does help is pot, and Posey, but Dylan's not stupid, he can't get high when he has work, and he _always_ has work. And Sober Posey is worryingly astute, looks at Dylan like he _knows_ things, and that—Posey knowing would make it unavoidable, y'know? Come to work, there it is. Go home, there it is. Hey, Dyl, how shitty are you feeling today? Man, that sucks. Let's talk about how much it sucks. Yeah? Really get it out there, really dig deep, _dude._ Maybe you've got, like, repressed trauma! I was watching this thing where this dude was like...

So, Comic-con.

Comic-con is one of the coolest places on earth. It used to be one of the most nerve-wracking, too, but Dylan knows the routine now, and the fans know him, and no one's booing him out or anything. No one's grabbing his arm, growling, “You're not Stiles.”

Wait, what?

Scratch that. Someone is definitely gripping Dylan's bicep tight, looking him up and down like he's the bird the plane the man the mystery. Eyes red as fuckin' lasers.

“You're not Stiles,” Tyler Hoechlin's evil twin says tightly.

What. The. Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I STILL OWE PEOPLE FIC AND I SWEAR I'M WORKING ON IT? *EXPLODES INTO MILLIONS OF GLOWING FIREFLIES*


	4. Comic-con, Pt 2

“No shit I'm not Stiles,” Dylan says after a few second's pause. He's made a lifetime out of compartmentalizing his freakout instinct into manageable moments of private panic; one glow-eyed, super-strong doppelganger trying to weld his palm to his arm is nothing. “More importantly, you're not Tyler. Or you've been seriously holding out on me, homie.”

Okay, maybe the nerves slipped in a little bit. Homie? What the fuck is that? Whatever, he'll feel dumb about it later.

Not!Tyler frowns at him, which—dude, who exactly is manhandling who here? Or being the real oddball in this situation? Not Dylan, he can tell you that. Dylan is as cool as a fuckin' cucumber mojito. Not!Tyler's eyebrows are doing a Derek thing, crawling into the middle of his face like a caterpillar ambling closer to his little caterpillar bro, or checking his little caterpillar dude self out in a mirror. Shut up, Dylan's spent a lot of time staring at that face. For job-related reasons. Mostly. He's got a whole slew of ridiculous similes, you don't even _know_.

“You're doin' the Derek face at me,” Dylan says, instead of any of that. “Seriously? You're frustrated at me, that's how you're playing this.”

“Tyler Hoechlin,” Not!Tyler says. He doesn't growl. Dylan kinda expected a growl. He's maybe a little disappointed. The guy does a weird pronunciation, too, like there's a Scottish Kh sound in there that Dylan's pretty sure he can't do without scraping the back of his throat. Ho-KH-lin. “You know him. He's like you.”

“You're asking me or telling me?” Dylan asks, 'cause he's a little shit like that, even if his arm is going pins-and-needles-y.

“What _are_ you,” Not!Tyler snaps.

Dylan shrugs the shoulder not in a vise grip, says, “Dylan O'Brien, human,” and winks. It's the first thing he can think of, and it flusters Not!Tyler so much he drops Dylan's arm and stumbles back, blinking like fuckin' Bambi. His eyes are back to Hoechlin eyes, so, great. Now he's got dazzle eyes on top of everything else, that's just wonderful. “Yep, one hundred percent human male. I breathe, I pee, I say trademark phrases when you squeeze my arm, like, just spitballin' here, 'Who or what the fuck are you, and do you have superpowers, or is there just something special in your protein shake today?'”

“I'm not squeezing your arm,” Not!Tyler says, forcing Dylan to rattle down the tangent of, “Yeah, no, delayed reaction. Slightly defective model, you know how it is. There were nationwide callbacks, it was this whole thing. Who the fuck are you?”

“You're human,” Not!Tyler repeats, like he's skeptical. Which, excuse you, Dylan may be weird but he's human-weird, he knows that much. He's like 98 percent sure, so.

“You've got another option to choose from, dude?” Dylan says instead.

“Shifter,” Not!Tyler says. “Druid. Uh, emissary—”

“Emissaries are human, dumb-ass,” Dylan says, which sounds kind of harsh when he hears it out loud. “I think? Unless Jeff changes his mind, I guess. Or it turns out Deaton is some kind of, like, mystical shape-shifting unicorn or something.”

Not!Tyler's just staring at Dylan like he fell from space. Which for all he knows is the next theory.

“Look, I have a panel in like ten, so if you want to, I don't know, reveal your one true purpose or whatever—”

“You went to a game,” Not!Tyler says quickly. “Mets vs Padres, a little less than a year ago.”

Dylan whistles. “Woo, spooky. It's almost like you, I don't know, have basic Google skills. Or—radical suggestion!—you were there with me.”

“You got up for something, and Stiles found your friends and thought—”

“Stiles,” Dylan repeats like he's considering it. Shakes his head. “Nope, pretty sure I never got those sides.”

“Your friends thought he was you. Method acting,” Not!Tyler goes on. “And Stiles, Stiles thought—”

Man, if this is Hoechlin doing some kind of weird drawn out prank, Dylan does not understand the career concerns at _all_. He is _bringin'_ it, this really sweet emotional vulnerability straining to the surface, and on all ad-libs, too.

“I'm not Hoechlin,” Not!Tyler says, because apparently Dylan said most of this out loud. He gets the pronunciation right this time, even if it still sounds kinda awkward from him, like he's pretty sure he's saying it wrong. Again, if this is Hoechlin, Dylan is going to, like, flip out. This is so much more intense than those scare pranks with him and Posey teaming up to spook him. This has, like, a _storyline_ and shit.

“Oh hey, not to be weird—what am I talking about, we've definitely crossed that threshold by now—but if you are Derek, I'd like to schedule some regular bickering between us in case Jeff keeps skimping on the Sterek-y scenes. It's actually really therapeutic for me for some reason, so.”

“You can't be real,” Possibly Derek bursts out. “I'm not a show, _Stiles_ isn't—” He shakes his head, says, “Who is _Jeff._ ”

“Okay, this is kind of perfect, I bet everyone will love this,” Dylan says, grabbing Possibly Derek's arm. “Jeff's like right here, I was just heading to talk to him, actually, so why don't we—”

He doesn't know what the plan is, exactly; it's still forming. About ninety percent of him is still hanging on to the possibility that he's just talking to a really, really method acting Hoechlin who's missed their scenes as much as Dylan has. The other ten is just kind of burrowing under the top ninety with its eyes squeezed shut, like some kind of 'I can't see you, you can't see me' hide-and-seek strategy.

So when he drags the guy on stage and drops down into his seat, he's relieved to see Hoechlin's seat empty. A thousand relief hallelujahs ring out in his head, along with a sort of disappointed hum. It would've been pretty sweet to talk to the actual, literal Derek Hale. Although the actual, literal Derek would probably be a basket case at this point, considering his life. So it's all good. Derek's not real, Tyler's a fucking pro who is gonna blow up at this job in some kind of Johnny Depp role like he's been dreaming about, and this panel's gonna be him answering as Derek, which can only be the most hilarious thing ever. Seriously, this cast is all powerhouses, they're incredible.

The relief drops, though, when something catches Tyler's eye, and Dylan follows it to Tyler Motherfreaking Hoechlin, who is staring back at Obviously Not Tyler like he's a riddle to be solved.

Sooo, this situation clearly needs an icebreaker.

“Tyler, Derek. Derek, Tyler,” Dylan says, sweeping his hands between them. “Apparently you met at a Mets game. Hey, pun not intended! Met and Mets. Um.”

“What the hell?” Tyler says, peering over Dylan's shoulder at his look-alike, an inch of confused half-grin starting up like he's prepping to laugh at the joke he'll get in a second. “This is...”

“Insane?” Dylan offers, huffing a one-beat laugh. “Yeah, you'd think, right?”

“No, seriously, how...?” Tyler's trying so hard to wrap his head around it and just _failing_. It's the most adorable thing ever. His eyebrows are doing the puzzled thing, not really converging, just kinda high and perplexed. “What's going on? Was there a contest or something?”

“Honestly? I'm kinda vague on the details myself,” Dylan admits. “But I’m starting to think our show is more based on a true story than most actual Based on a True Story stories.”

And then Tyler's hand is on Dylan's arm, fingers kneading into his shoulder, and seriously, what is with Dylan's shoulder and unnecessarily forceful touch today? Not that he honestly minds that much, or at all, really. He minds an only slightly surprising not at all at this moment.

“Yeah, be cool, dude,” Dylan says, feeling pretty fucking calm himself, given the circumstances. Everything has this not-quite-real sheen to it that's making it a whole lot easier to handle than it should be. “'Cause I'm like ninety percent sure this guy here is the one, the only, the real life pain train himself.”

Aaand those are Tyler's finger's tightening into his shoulder. The guy's no laser-eyed werewolf, but he can still crush a coke can into an apple core shape in his fist. Dylan has seen him do it, and he needs these shoulders for, like, supporting his neck so his head doesn't just slump over and force him to stare at his dick all day, so he kind of pushes his palm back to vaguely that area with the intention of easing Ty's fingers from their vise grip a bit, but whoops, apparently some signals got crossed and now his hand is just kind of flopped down over Tyler's like a dead fish, completely unresponsive to his actual intentions, which do not include holding Hoechlin's hand or whatever's happening in a room that is, oh perfect, quickly filling up with people, many of whom have cameras, and in Dylan's experience generally do not agree with Tyler's agent about how the whole Stereky thing should go down.

“Right, so, maybe this wasn't the best plan,” Dylan says.

For his part, Derek's been unresponsive since Tyler showed up, just staring at him, staring at Dylan, face unreadable.

“There was a plan?” Tyler asks, and now he's noticing them too, and blushing for no reason Dylan can think of, up his neck to the tips of his ears. He doesn't move his hand. “What was it?”

“Um, bring him out here and make Jeff deal with it?” Dylan admits. Whatever, like literally anyone else has ever dealt with this situation better. “I don't know, man, I'm still not ruling out this whole thing being some exhaustion-based hallucination. I'm basically trusting you to be my reality sensei.”

“That's...” Tyler says, then, “I mean, he's right here. There's really—I can't dispute that.”

That's pretty much the point where the crowd as one notices the second Hoechlin, and pandemonium erupts. It's probably positive? Like, more to love, or whatever. But it's also really fucking loud, and Derek's gone from blank-faced panic to actively wincing, and yeah, Dylan's standing up and dragging him out of this before everything can get even more out of control.

At least, that's the plan.

But then Jeff shows up, and the place goes hushed as the moderator starts to welcome everyone to the panel, and Tyler has to sit down, but every seat is taken. Dylan jokingly offers his lap, and Tyler kind of stares at him for a bit, expression unreadable, before shaking his head and half-turning like he's going somewhere.

“Oh no you don't,” Dylan warns. “We are all in this together, dawg.” And what, what even is that? He can hear himself speaking, and he's inwardly cringing to the point of contraction, but he doesn't stop there, oh no. He grabs Hoechlin's wrist, says, “Sit on my fucking lap, bro, you're not going to catch anything.”

Because the entire world has been conspiring to manufacture this exact moment, this apex of absolute humiliation, his mic picks up the last part.

Yeah, he's going to freak out _so much_ about this when this terrible, terrible moment is over. But right now it just stretches on, and on, and on, his whole face flaming as he buries his head in his hands and goes for the Laugh.

No response. Just dead silence. A couple of giggles escaping from somewhere in the back.

Hoechlin also looks like he wants to die, which is very, very small consolation. Like, not at all comforting consolation, because Dylan did that. With his awkward. Fantastic.

“So Derek,” he says loudly, because this can't get any _worse_ , can it? “Uh, how's Comic-con treating you?”

“Derek?” Jeff repeats, and then he sees him—but he doesn't really look surprised.

“ _You_ ,” Derek breathes, eyes steely, and rises from his seat.

 _Well,_ Dylan thinks, glad for the distraction. _This should be interesting._


	5. Comic-con, Pt 3

“ _Davis_ ,” Derek says. He's still not growling, but his eyes are flaming, so, that's happening. Dylan checks back with Tyler; he's gone pale and is reaching for Dylan's side but missing it by inches. Dylan rolls his eyes and helps the guy out.

There's maybe some _woo-_ ing going down in the audience, but it's kinda hard to focus on that right now, what with the werewolf/show-runner confrontation scene playin' out here and all.

“You made a _show_ about us?” Derek says, so, apparently the dude knows how question marks work. Good for him. “What, you didn't get your fill of entertainment pretending to be my therapist?” His eyebrows are basically having a Clint Eastwood showdown, this-forehead-ain't-big-enough-for-the-two-of-us style.

“I wasn't pretending,” Jeff says reasonably. “I never said I was licensed.”

Derek's fingers flex into fists, and his— _his fucking_ _claws are out_. Digging into his palms in a way that gives Dylan sympathy pain. He's barely blinking, a solid wall of tensed muscle and slipping control.

Tyler is basically leaning on Dylan for support at this point.

“You let me come to you twice a week for six months,” Derek says, “and tell you—”

Jeff's just staring at him.

Derek shuts his eyes for just a second, rolls his shoulders. Tyler twitches instinctively.

“Hey, just a suggestion,” Dylan says, hyper-conscious of the audience, “but maybe we should move this conversation somewhere—not here.”

“Well people came here to, uh,” Tyler says, then, “All these people came here for the panel, we can't just—”

“I kind of think this whole _Derek Hale is totally real and Jeff was his therapist_ thing should maybe take precedence,” Dylan says.

“You like getting booed?” Tyler asks incredulously.

“Love it, it keeps me humble,” Dylan says on instinct. “But seriously, if this dude—I mean if this is his _life_ we're playing out, _without his permission by the way,_ I say he's the boss.”

Derek turns to stare at Dylan. His gaze is intense, and really, deeply sad. Like _'_ opening montage of _Finding Nemo'_ sad.

“Thank you,” Derek says quietly, and whoa, Dylan was not expecting _that_. He shifts uncomfortably, feeling uncompromisingly shitty, and, like, _exposed_.

“No, man, it's—That's not cool, y'know?” He can hear his heartbeat, and the blood rushing in his ears. The distant buzz and chatter of an impatient audience. “I mean, this is so freaking weird, all of this, but that's—just kind of _basic_ , in my opinion.” And shit, he's gonna be so fired if he keeps talking. “So Stiles, he's—uh, he's real too?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and some of the resigned sadness goes out of his eyes as he nods once, slow. “Yeah, Stiles is real.”

“Cool,” Dylan says, and immediately regrets it. “I mean—jeez, man, I’m sorry.”

“You're human,” Derek says, like that's an excuse. “You weren't trying to—I should've known it was Davis.”

“How?” Tyler asks.

“He's a trickster,” Derek says. Dylan snaps his fingers; he knows this.

“Like a, like a kitsune,” he says.

Derek frowns. “No, just a trickster. He's not Japanese.”

“Oh,” Dylan says, wilting. “It's just, there was this thing in the—Forget it.”

“In the show,” Derek says.

“Yeah,” Dylan admits, trying to apologize with his everything. “Next half of the season.”

“I don't care what you put on your show,” Derek says.

“You don't?” Tyler asks dubiously.

“Stiles saw you at a Mets game,” Derek says.

Right. That.

Hoechlin's eyes go wide. “That was Stiles? Your, I mean _the real_ —” A flush starts crawling up his neck again. He shakes his head, ears stained pink. Dylan pats his arm consolingly.

“I don't know how— _accurate_ your show is,” Derek says, and Hoechlin practically facepalms. “Stiles, he's, when he saw you—”

“He thought he was losing it,” Dylan realizes. “That's kind of in the next half of the season too.”

“He's not _losing it_ ,” Derek says tightly. “He saw you. You're real. He just—”

“Freaked out,” Dylan says, glad to be helpful somehow. “Because of his mom.”

“Yeah,” Derek says.

“So you figured something was messing with him and came here to confront it.”

“Well, congratulations,” Jeff says. “But we've actually got a program to get through, if you don't mind.” He says the last part clear into his mic. The crowd's impatient chatter kicks up into cheers again. Tyler looks kind of alarmed, which is a weirdly main focus of Dylan's attention until—

“I'm pretty sure he minds, dude,” says Stiles Stilinski.

Hoechlin spins around so fast he nearly loses a fight with gravity. Dylan catches him by the arm and watches him spend a good thirty seconds staring, wide-eyed, from one to the other.

“Um, what's going on here?” the moderator asks, before getting an eyeful of the unexpected guests and double-taking. “How—Was there a contest?”

“That's what I thought!” Hoechlin says, cheered by this. “That's what I thought.”

“No, there wasn't a contest,” Stiles snaps. “Just this hack cashing in our shitty lives. _And_ taking some serious liberties, by the way, _Deucalion_.”

“Deucalion,” Hoechlin repeats, then seems surprised he can form words. “ _Our_ Deucalion? I mean. Not _our_ Deucalion, we don't—we don't _like_ him, or anything. Oh god.”

“Duke spent his most of his screen-time impaling Derek— _our_ Derek—on a pipe,” Dylan says, feeling the need to intervene. Tyler's ears are very pink. “So yeah, he's not exactly Mr. Popularity.”

“Davis never did that,” Stiles says, then turns to Derek, eyes narrowed. “Did he _do_ that?”

“He, uh,” Derek says, then, “Not really.”

“Not _really_?” Stiles demands, looking murderous. “What does that even—”

“Not here,” Derek says, low, and Stiles' eyes go wide for a second, but he nods, nods again, schools his face blank. Dylan knows that move well enough to catch it, and from the look on Derek's face, he does, too.

“It's not your fault,” Derek says, like he's picking up the thread of a familiar argument.

“Yeah, it won't be when I _kill_ him,” Stiles says darkly.

“Stiles—”

“Don't even—”

“Look, I don't care if you're Jesus coming to take us all to a spiritual _nirvana_ ,” the moderator snaps. “These people paid for a panel with the head writer and three actors of this show, and _god damn it_ they're getting a panel if I have to call _fucking_ security to get the rest of you out of here.”

“The rest—?” Dylan cranes his neck again.

“Are you the real Tyler Posey?” the moderator barks at the newcomer, who looks at him.

“Yeah, man, always,” Tyler says, all good-natured bemusement, then goggles at Derek and Stiles. “Ohh my god! Dude! Best cosplays ever! How did you even do that? D, have you seen this?”

Dylan's starkly aware of his fingers wrapped around Hoechlin's bicep. He drops his hand to scratch the back of his neck, turns to Tyler.

“Yeah, they're kinda the real deal,” he says, and laughs a little, because he's suddenly all too aware of everything—Tyler, Hoechlin, all the staring eyes—and the everything of all of it, the _reality_ of all of it, kind of crashes into him at once. He just keeps the little laugh going because he doesn't know what he'll do when it stops.

And then it stops, and he's just scratching the back of his neck with a too-cold hand, feeling the eyes on him like hot needles.

“Wait, what?” Tyler says, easy grin going still. Then he's got that look he gets sometimes lately, that concerned look. “Hey, are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, yeah,” Dylan lies. It feels fucking awful lying to Tyler, but hey, at least he's getting used to feeling fucking awful. Upside! See, there had to be one. And nothing, nothing is even a little bit funny anymore.

“No, dude, I'm serious,” Tyler says, and then he's at Dylan's side, asking a blur in the corner of Dylan's eye, “Um, can we, I don't know, like—”

“Here's what we're going to do,” Jeff cuts him off. “Everyone who isn't supposed to be here is going to go somewhere else for the next two hours, either willingly or with the help of security. Everyone who _is_ supposed to be here will be alert and perky and ready to answer as many invasive or idiotic questions as they get. And maybe we won't get canceled! Sound good? Doesn't matter, I'm your boss, and if I'm not your boss, I'm a powerful trickster who can trap you in a hell dimension with a snap of my fingers. So lets not make that necessary. And let's have a good time! And you,” he says, fixing his suddenly sharp gaze on the moderator. “Chris, right?”

“B-Brian,” says the moderator.

“Chris, why don't you find these guys somewhere to hang out until the panel's over?” Jeff says, face casual, tone glacial.

“Well, I'm really supposed to stay h-here and make sure the ap-approved questions—”

“We're not going anywhere,” Stiles snaps.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Jeff says. “ _Fine_. This is a _special_ panel featuring two very _committed_ cosplaying fans, part of our efforts to embrace our—our _uniquely_ _devoted_ —Matt will write something on Tumblr later. Chris, why don't you get these guys some chairs?”

“It's _Brian_ ,” Brian mutters resentfully on his way out.

  


The introductions go down the line: Tyler Posey, arm loose around Dylan's tense shoulders, the cosplayer known only as Derek Hale surprisingly placid with a still seething Stiles at his side, Hoechlin, still staring at everything like reality might reset or everything might make sense with just a little more close watch, and Jeff Davis, head writer and trickster, looking normal as ever, except suddenly—everything is sudden, now—everything needs a second and third and fourth look, even more than usual. Tyler's worry on one side, Derek's calm on the other, and Dylan freaking out in the middle. Wonderful, this is obviously gonna be massively entertaining for two million people on YouTube.

And shit, now he's shaking. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Dude,” Tyler says, low, avoiding his mic, “I gotta pee.”

Dylan laughs. For about ten seconds, it helps.

“Ask Jeff to transport you to a toilet dimension,” he suggests.

“Everything's a toilet if you're drunk enough,” Tyler says, and Dylan laughs again.

“Pee goggles.”

“My question's for Dylan,” someone says, and Dylan sobers. Finds her in the crowd, smiles. “Hey!”

His facial muscles are weirdly tight; the smile feels like a rubber mask. Dylan rubs his mouth, his jaw, tries again.

“Um, my question—Are you okay?”

“Maybe a little tired,” Dylan says, faking a melodramatic yawn. “Sorry, what's your name?”

“Clarissa.”

“Cool name!” Dylan says, trying to get to that boundless enthusiasm place rather than this stiff panic place. “Hi Clarissa, I'm Dylan.”

“Yeah, I know,” Clarissa says, laughing. “Um, my question is, Do you think Stiles' dad will ever find out about Stiles blaming himself for his mother's death?”

“About—” Derek glares daggers at Jeff. “You put _that_ in the show.”

“Course he did,” Stiles says flatly. “Doesn't get more dramatic than my issues, am I right? I mean that's just entertainment.”

“Stiles,” Derek says. It's like a scene, like Dylan's watching bonus footage he doesn't remember shooting: Derek magnified on the giant screen, furious melting into apologetic, Stiles dark-eyed and unnaturally still. “We can go, you don't have to—”

The crowd doesn't like that suggestion. Neither does Stiles.

“No, we should stick around. Wouldn't want to miss a second of this, would you? Maybe they'll ask about Kate next.” He shoves his hand through his hair, says, “No, I didn't—I'm sorry,” almost before Derek flinches.

“Was—Is there something wrong with the question?” Clarissa asks nervously. “I didn't know there were gonna be—”

“No, no, it's a great question!” Dylan says quickly. She looks so anxious, it's heartbreaking.

“It's a great question,” Hoechlin concurs, nodding.

“Definitely,” Tyler says, then jokes, “I mean, considering it's not for me, excellent question.”

Dylan pats Tyler's shoulder. “Next time, bro.” He grins, nods. “And uh, I think if his dad finds out, y'know, he'd say it wasn't his fault, first of all, and it's—I mean I think kids are kind of—they still kind of think the world revolves around them, right, so if something really traumatic happens, they're more likely to blame themselves, or think they could've stopped it somehow, and there's also this kind of, like, illusion of control that comes with it, like if I did this and this and this I could've stopped it, but sometimes bad things happen and it's just out of your hands and that can definitely be hard to accept, I guess... Uh, but yeah, y'know, I think his dad would understand that and, uh, he'd kind of sit him down and work it out why he thinks that and set him straight, 'cause it's not—I mean, it's not his fault, his dad definitely doesn't blame him, so I think he'd just help Stiles see how he sees it. Yeah. Or something like that, I don't know. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Clarissa says, smiling again, and the obligatory applause echoes through the room. It feels weird and hollow with the real Stiles feet away, quiet, just staring at him.

“Sorry,” he mutters past his mic. It wasn't Clarissa's fault, he wasn't gonna leave her hanging, and he tried to give a good answer, but he wouldn't blame Stiles if it all sounded like some asshole using his life to get, like, a Lifetime moment.

Basically, if he gets punched, he'll take it.

“He's right,” Derek says quietly, ignoring Dylan completely.

“Sure,” Stiles says.

“Your mother was sick,” Derek says. “That wasn't your fault.”

“Yeah, and some psycho set your house on fire, that wasn't your fault either.”

“That's—” Derek closes his eyes, shakes his head. “That's not the same thing, Stiles.”

“Why not?”

“Because I let her in!” Derek snaps. “You didn't—You didn't do anything, what happened to your mom happened to you and there wasn't—You didn't put that in her head, you didn't _help it_ —”

“I froze, okay. When I was supposed to call—” Stiles scratches at his eye. “And you couldn't have stopped it even if you knew, she was gonna kill all of you, at least this way she didn't—”

“I could've got them out,” Derek says. “If I knew, I could've—tricked her, had her burn an empty house, sent everyone to Brazil—”

“Brazil?”

“Cora always wanted to go to Brazil,” Derek whispers. “My little sister.”

“Wait a minute,” Dylan says, because he knows this. This can't be a coincidence. “She was eleven, right? A werewolf? Kinda looks like you, with the—”

“What are you saying?” Derek says.

“Last season,” Dylan says, and all the hope goes out of Derek's eyes like at once. “No, hear me out. How would Jeff know about her—”

“He was Derek's therapist for six months,” Stiles snaps.

“I never told him about her,” Derek says, eyes very bright.

“Last season Cora came back,” Dylan says. “From South America. And it wasn't really explained how she got out, she was just kind of—back. And hey, if we look the same, just—” He gets his phone out, scrolls through his photos until he finds one of Hoechlin and Adelaide, passes it over.

“ _Cora_ ,” Derek says, like it's been punched out of him. “She's—Where is she?” His eyes search the audience, like she's somewhere among the cacophony of fans. Stiles' hand curls over the back of his neck.

“I don't know,” Dylan admits. “That's Adelaide Kane, she has a new show now, but if Jeff wrote about Cora, and picked Adelaide to play her... Maybe someone did trick Kate, right? Maybe she did burn an empty house, or just Peter, and you and Laura had to believe she hadn't so she wouldn't try to find the rest of them.”

“But how would Peter have become the Alpha? If he didn't steal it from Laura—” Hoechlin says. Apparently they haven't been as quiet as Dylan meant to be.

“Maybe it was his plan?” Tyler joins in. “Maybe he already was an Alpha, and he staged a scene for the hunters when they came back so they'd assume she was dead—”

“I found her,” Derek says. “And Kate found her first.”

“So it didn't work,” Dylan says quietly, still stuck on the revelation that all this tragic shit _actually happened_. “And Peter killed Kate.”

“And I killed him for nothing?”

“Dude!” Tyler stares at Derek. “He bit me! I mean Scott,” he corrects. “Without my permission, and tried to get me to kill people, and then he tried to kill Lydia—”

“My question is for Jeff,” someone says from the audience. Dylan tries to find her, but can't place the sound. And then he can.

“Why did you kill me?” Jennifer Blake asks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i said comic-con would be a two-parter?
> 
> oops


	6. Comic-con, Pt 4

The world slows down, crystallizes.

“We have to get everyone out of here,” Dylan says, amazed at how calm he sounds. “Or will she leave them alone? Will she leave you alone?” he asks Derek, who doesn't seem to be reacting much at all. Classic Derek Hale panic face, if Dylan knows anything.

Hoechlin's already edging in front of Derek like a human shield.

“Shit, is that the _real_ —” Posey starts, before jumping ahead of that train of thought to, “Fuck! What does she want?”

“Who, _Jen_?” Stiles asks, like they've completely lost their minds. “What the hell is she like on your show?”

“So she's not actually a murderer?” Hoechlin asks.

“Is that how he's playing it?” Stiles scoffs. “Did _Deucalion_ kill her?”

“Peter,” Hoechlin says.

“Peter?” Derek says sharply. “Peter's dead. I killed him.”

“Yeah, he kind of... came back,” Dylan says, apologetic.

“At Lydia's birthday,” Posey explains.

“In season two,” Hoechlin says helpfully.

“How?” Derek demands.

“I don't think it was ever really explained,” Hoechlin admits.

“He was in Lydia's dreams a lot,” Posey says.

“Tom Riddle style,” Dylan concurs.

“Nice reference, bro!”

“Really,” Derek says tightly.

“It's a good reference,” Hoechlin agrees, a little sheepish. “It's—It's a good reference.”

Derek rolls his eyes violently.

“So then he had her drug Derek—Our version,” Hoechlin clarifies, ears pinking at the edges. “Me. With this purple powder stuff. Maybe wolfsbane. Wolfsbane,” he decides, nodding. “And drag hi—drag me to the Hale house, where—”

“Where he was buried under the floorboards!” Posey says. “I remember that!”

“There was all this light,” Dylan says. “And he kind of leeched onto your alpha power and used it to heal himself? I think,” he says. It's entirely possible his memories of every part of the show he didn't shoot have been replaced by complete nonsense over time.

Actually, that would explain a lot.

“That never happened,” Derek says. “It can't. People can't just come back.”

The silence after that hums like an accusation. Dylan really doesn't know what to do with himself, what to say. _That sucks_ doesn't really do it justice. _Oh, good_ might work in the context of creepy uncles, but this guy—this guy lost _everyone_.

Fuck, Dylan's gonna fucking cry in a minute.

“So Jennif—Jen's your girlfriend?” Dylan asks, casually touching the side of his face, his cheekbone, the edge of his eye.

Stiles looks at him sharply.

“Jen's gay,” he says.

Now that Dylan thinks of it, Jeff might've thrown that in somewhere too.

“So,” he hazards, “Kali—?”

“Loooong story,” Stiles says, shaking his head.

“Uh... Guys?” Hoechlin says. “Is it just me, or is no one in the audience actually moving?”

Dylan rubs his eyes, looks out.

It's not that they're frozen. There's definitely some mobility. It's just... after a while, you get the sense something isn't right.

Watch just a few of them for more than a few seconds, and it becomes obvious.

“Holy shit,” Posey says. “We're in an _actual_ —”

“We're inside a GIF,” Dylan says.

He doesn't really know why he won't let himself freak out at this point.

“Is it GIF or GIF, by the way?” he asks conversationally. “I never know—”

Stiles reaches out experimentally, like he's feeling for the edges of it. In the audience, this one guy keeps half-standing, then abruptly appearing back in his seat without any of the normally associated transitional movements. A few rows away, a girl drops her iPhone, notices, and then it's in her hand again, just in time for the loop to replay.

Derek's eyes are red, and he's scanning the room like he's got X-ray vision. Does he? There was something like that in one of the first episodes of the third season, Dylan remembers vaguely. It's suddenly become more important than he ever could have imagined to remember as much Teen Wolf trivia as possible.

This is so not how he ever expected his life to turn out.

“Did Jeff do this?” Hoechlin asks. Dylan, transfixed by the weird, repetitive ripples of movement, only really hears him the second time around.

“You said Jeff's a trickster,” he reminds Derek, tearing his eyes away. “Is this the kind of thing he did with you?”

“He said it was a kind of hypnosis,” Stiles says. “Deaton recommended him. I thought it was Deaton, anyway.”

“Stiles,” Derek says.

“Right,” Stiles says. “Sure. You told everything to that actual bag of diseased dicks because I told you to _give the process a chance_ as if I knew shit about it, but you're right. Why would I regret that? When have I ever fucked up anything for anyone? Stiles Stilinski, not an obnoxious, life ruining fuck-up at all, that's what they all say.”

“I didn't tell him _everything_ ,” Derek argues.

Stiles' answering smile is dark and sharp.

“And you're not—any of that,” Derek adds.

“You're not,” Hoechlin says, nodding approvingly. “You're—” He struggles for the right words. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he says. “That doesn't mean that _you're_ —”

Stiles stares at him. “Oh my god,” he says. “You're—what, a _fan_?”

Hoechlin goes pink.

“You don't have to be a dick,” Dylan says, a little more annoyed than he probably should be.

“He's quoting _Hannah Montana_ at me,” Stiles says.

“First of all, I'm pretty sure that was a Miley song,” Dylan counters, “and second of all, so fucking _what_? It's true.”

“No, that was definitely straight Hannah Montana,” Posey says. “And you're kind of an asshole,” he tells Stiles, getting up to sling an arm around Hoechlin's shoulders. “I think I might finally get it now.”

“What?”

“Why so many fans of the show see you together with him,” Posey says.

Stiles follows Posey's eyes, says, “Derek's not an—” rethinks, and shuts his mouth. “Let's see you handle his life better,” he challenges, instead.

He doesn't challenge the other part at all. Dylan's pretty sure he's not the only one who notices.

For one thing, Derek's mouth twists into a kind of half-smile for a couple of seconds before—holy fuck—he's doing that ear-blushing thing Dylan has never once seen Hoechlin do in character.

And Hoechlin, he's—well, he's still kind of bummed, doing that thing where he pretends he's not bummed but is so tense you can't miss it (Don't meet your heroes, kids, Dylan thinks. They'll break your heart) but he's watching the two of them like they're all here for an episode viewing and he's gonna be quizzed on it later.

“Can we _focus_?” someone says. “How do we get _out_ of here?”

Dylan turns.

“Brian?” Posey says. “What are you doing here?”

“My _name_ is—” Brian says tightly, before realizing Posey got it right. “Oh. I don't know! I don't know why no one can just _let me_ _do my job_!”

Derek sobers. “Look at the floor.” There's a wide white strip between them and the door.

It definitely wasn't this white before. It's practically glowing.

“We're trapped in a GIF,” Stiles says, walking up to it. “It's just a question of what kind.”

“What do you mean?” Hoechlin asks.

“A white strip in a GIF could mean two things,” Stiles explains, a little patronizingly if you ask Dylan. _Asshole_. “It could be a border—”

“Or it could be a false border,” Posey finishes. “To make it look 3D.”

“Exactly. If we cross the border, we should be outside the GIF.”

“But if we cross the false border, we're just on the other side of it,” Hoechlin surmises.

“Yup.”

“Aren't we outside it already?” Dylan asks. “I mean, we're not looping like that.”

Posey's eyes widen. “Dude, what if we _are_?”

“Jen's not here,” Derek says. “Neither is Davis. We have to find them.”

“She'll be okay,” Stiles says.

“I know,” Derek says, a hint of dark pride in his voice. “It's Davis I'm worried about.”

“He's a trickster,” Hoechlin says.

“Yes,” Stiles says. Just, completely—dismissing him.

Stiles is a _tool_.

“No,” Hoechlin says, annoyed. “He's a _trickster_. None of this is real.”

“We just think it is,” Dylan realizes. Fuck Stiles, Tyler's _brilliant_.

“No shit,” Stiles says flatly. “That doesn't matter. It _feels_ real.”

“That's how it kills you,” Derek says.

“'That's how—'” Posey repeats. “What the _hell_? How?”

“Erica?” Dylan guesses. “Boyd?”

It finally hits him then: they were real people. They were real people, and Jeff killed them, and then he made a show and killed them again.

It's getting kind of hard to breathe.

“Isaac,” Stiles says.

Dylan can hear Posey go still.

“So you can just shut the fuck up about _mistakes_ ,” Stiles says. “And whatever you think you know about our shit. You don't know anything.”

Dylan actually feels like a dick for a couple of seconds.

Then Derek says, “You should've seen it coming.”

Stiles' mouth goes slack.

“You had to,” Derek says reasonably. “Who else is smart enough to predict the villain every time? Not me, that's for sure.” The look on his face is terrible. “Fooling me is inevitable, right? So it's all up to you. Always. My pack, my beta, _your_ responsibility—”

“Shut up,” Stiles says. “You didn't like it, _I_ told you to keep—”

“Because talking about how I got my family killed to _anyone_ makes me—” Derek scoffs. Shakes his head. “You''re unbelievable.”

“ _I'm_ —?”

“Can we table this and maybe, I don't know, _get out of here_?” Brian snaps.

“How?” Posey asks. “How did Jeff kill him?”

“There was this freezer,” Stiles says.

Dylan goes cold.

“So you know about it,” Stiles says. “Do you know about psychosomatic injury?”

“No, c'mon,” Dylan says. “That's, like, anxiety stomachaches. That's not _deadly_.”

“He froze to death,” Stiles snaps. “In an unplugged freezer.”

“So that's—magic!” Dylan says. “Supernatural mayhem, that's not _normal_ —”

Derek raises an eyebrow.

“What about this situation—” Stiles indicates the dizzying ebb and flow of the audience. “—is _normal_ to you?”

“How did you find him?” Posey asks.

“Davis' scenes need skeletons,” Derek says. “They need to be drawn from something. Built around something.”

“Every good lie needs a little bit of truth,” Stiles says.

“So the skeleton can be a freezer,” Posey says. “Or a room.”

“What happens when someone knocks on the door?” Hoechlin asks. “Forces it open?”

“It doesn't matter,” Derek says. “If you don't expect a knock, you won't hear it. If you think you'll never get out, no one can convince you to stop freezing.”

His voice is soft, but matter-of-fact. Dylan thinks he prefers Stiles' sarcastic sneer. He's not really ready for this eyes-open take on the darkest parts of reality. It's calling to the darkest parts of him, and that—he really doesn't need that right now.

“We're expecting a knock,” Hoechlin says, and Dylan remembers.

“That's right!” Dylan says. All the stress drains out of him at once. “There's like a million other things happening here today.” Tyler's so fucking brilliant, Dylan could _kiss_ him.

“So we know when this panel ends,” Posey says. “What time is it now?”

Hoechlin whips out his iPhone.

Goes quiet.

Peering over his shoulder, Dylan sees the clock. 5:05 turns into 5:06.

“Okay, it's—” He starts to turn back. Hoechlin puts a hand on his arm.

“Wait.”

It's 5:06 for a few seconds more.

Then it's 5:05 again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two more and we're done! this is one of the first fics i ever started writing for teen wolf so it's about time it got its wings.
> 
> in my head brian is very, very close to being billy eichner (craig on parks & recreation). about as close as a person can be without being billy eichner.


	7. Comic-con, Part 5

Everyone lays their phones out in a row. Four iPhones, a Nokia Lumia, and a PagePlus flip phone with eighty dollars of prepaid minutes and no texting plan turn to 5:06, then skip back to 5:05. Each loop takes about four seconds.

They're screwed.

“Maybe—” Posey says, then, “Maybe—”

Dylan looks to him expectantly.

“Fuck, I don't know,” Posey says, and sits down on the edge of the stage, staring out into the rolling crowd.

“How did you get out?” Hoechlin asks Derek.

“It wasn't like this,” Derek says. “Davis was in it with me, he'd be controlling it.” His mouth is a thin line. “When he wanted to ask me something, he just made it stop.”

Dylan can't handle thinking about that, about Derek going through that. Reliving all that. Just so, what, Jeff could make some stupid show?

After he _killed_ —

“What about Isaac?” Posey asks, still looking out into middle distance, eyes narrowed. Of course it's hitting him the hardest—Isaac was like a brother to Scott, he was always at least a little real to him. Dylan knew him as his Stiles knew him, as comic relief, some acerbic mix of Stiles and a more violent Jackson, but even his stomach curled tight into itself when he watched Tyler's Scott find that freezer. Even he can't not see it, Isaac trapped in there, frantic, his pack panicking around him, trying to wake him, shake him out of it, _C'mon, please, it's okay, you're okay, just—listen, listen, listen! You're out. You got out, we got you out, you're gonna be..._

Dylan would go give Tyler a hug or something if he thought he could hug someone without completely breaking down himself.

“Jen found Davis out,” Stiles says. “So he wove a bunch of them to give himself a running start. They faded a few hours later.”

“So is it like a proximity thing?” Dylan asks. He hears his voice like someone's playing back a recording. It doesn't feel attached to him at all. “He's somewhere close, so it's not fading?”

“Don't _say_ that!” Stiles snaps. “This thing works on _belief_ , remember?”

“You're the one going on about how it can _kill_ you,” Posey points out. “Why didn't you just say, 'Click your heels twice and you're back'?”

Stiles swallows.

“That would've _worked_?” Dylan says.

“It doesn't matter,” Derek says. “We'll figure something else out.”

“No, wait,” Dylan says, fed up. “I wanna know why he's jumping down our throats when he's the one who just screwed us out of the closest thing to a get out of jail free card.”

“It wouldn't have worked,” Derek says. “But we'll—”

“Why wouldn't it have worked?” Dylan demands. “If it's all _belief_ —”

“Because I don't believe it, okay?” Stiles says. “Even if it worked, I—”

“You would have been stuck here,” Hoechlin realizes. “Alone.”

Stiles swipes at his eyes.

“It _wouldn't have worked_ ,” Derek says, like he's struggling not to strangle someone.

For the first time, there isn't a trace of fight in Stiles' voice.

“Yeah, it would've,” he says.

“We're not leaving anyone behind,” Derek says. “Ever. We either get out together, or we don't. So _it wouldn't have worked_ ,” he tells Dylan, eyes dangerous.

Dylan squeaks.

“We're not gonna get out any faster by attacking each other,” Hoechlin says. He sounds so calm. How the fuck is he so calm?

“Assuming we ever get out,” Stiles says.

“We're all getting out,” Derek says firmly. “We've made it through worse. We just have to think.”

 

“We know it's not real,” Hoechlin says, after a while of everyone thinking and coming up with absolutely nothing remotely helpful. “So what is?”

“What?” Stiles says blankly.

“We're not actually looping,” Hoechlin explains, “because Jeff can't do that. It's just a trick.”

“So we figure out what's actually happening, we get out of here,” Dylan says, a little awed.

“That's actually kind of genius,” Stiles says.

Hoechlin smiles to himself.

“No, I mean it,” Stiles says. “Time has to be passing, we have to be in this room. Davis can't physically change anything. I mean, he can stage the skeleton—”

“Like the freezer,” Posey says.

“Exactly,” Stiles says. “But he can't actually pull things from thin air, he can't make the walls close in on us or anything, he can only make us think—”

“Can you not talk about the _walls_?” Brian says hysterically, eying them like they might attack him.

“That's it, I swear,” Stiles says soothingly. “You're gonna be fine.”

“Do I look _fine_ to you?” Brian shrieks.

“It's okay, it's okay,” Stiles says. “Nothing's gonna happen to you—”

“Why would you even _say_ that?”

“We're gonna get out of here,” Stiles promises. “Just—Just try to think, alright? The panel's over. The panel's over, where are you?”

“Trapped in a hell dimension with a roomful of lunatics!”

“Whoa, hey, hey,” Stiles says. “It's not a hell dimension. It's not any kind of dimension.”

“It's just a trick,” Hoechlin repeats, and Dylan finally gets it, how he's powering through this. Eye on the ball, nothing else matters. Let everything else hit you later. Right now, you can't afford to see it.

“It's just a trick, exactly,” Stiles says. “And we're all getting out.”

  
Meanwhile, Posey watches Derek test the border.

“I...” Posey says. “I'm not sure you're actually an asshole, man.”

Derek gives him a look. “Thanks?”

“I mean, on the show, that's—” Posey shakes his head. “But you're a good alpha, you care about them.”

“Your Derek doesn't?”

“He definitely has a weird way of showing it,” Posey says. “But he's getting better. Can I ask you something?”

Derek shrugs.

“Do you totally hate us for making your life into this—this crazy—”

“No.”

“Well why the hell not?”

“I don't care what happens on your show,” Derek says. “It's not real. It's not us.” He prods the edge of the border with a single claw. “I just don't want him writing it.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I don't know,” Derek says. “Do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Tell Stiles I'll be right back.”

He steps over the border and disappears.

 

“He said _what_?” Stiles asks.

“He'll be right back,” Posey repeats.

“That's bullshit, he wouldn't just leave—us,” Stiles says. “No one's getting left behind, he _said_ that. We all heard him.”

Posey shrugs.

“Are you fucking with me?” Stiles demands. “Did something happen?”

“He just stepped over the border,” Posey says. “And then he just—disappeared.”

“To _where_?” Stiles says, and Dylan realizes: he's a kid. He's sixteen, seventeen maybe.

He isn't a tool, he's just scared.

All the arguing he and Derek do, none of it's real. It's just their version of Hoechlin's laser-eyed focus, of Dylan's incessant internal monologue. Some kind of distraction, some kind of normalcy. Some kind of tactic to help you power through the dark shit when all signs point to this being the part where you should be going completely batcrap crazy.

“Maybe that's the exit,” Dylan suggests. “Maybe he wants us to follow him.”

“Derek wouldn't do that,” Stiles says. “He'd go last, you _know_ how he is—don't you?”

Dylan actually thinks he might, now.

Stiles and Derek—they look out for each other. If Derek's gone, it's because he thinks it's what he needs to do. What Stiles needs him to do.

Either he has some kind of plan, or...

“C'mon,” Dylan says. “You wanna find Derek, or not?”

 

“I don't see—” Stiles says.

“Stiles,” Derek says. Stiles spins so fast he practically blurs. “I knew you'd figure it out.”

“I hate you,” Stiles says, but he hugs him, hard. “And I didn't figure it out, Dylan did.”

“You would've,” Derek says, but his face thanks Dylan anyway.

“They're moving again,” Hoechlin says, watching the crowd with something close to wonder.

Dylan lets out a shaky breath, realizes he'd been holding it.

“We should clear out before we get swarmed,” he says, struggling not to just visibly break down out of sheer relief in front of who knows how many cameras.

“Hey, Dyl, look at me,” Posey says, and pulls Dylan into a hug. Dylan ducks his head against Posey's shirt and holds on, every other breath catching in his throat.

 

“I guess I’ll just stay here and do my fucking job,” Brian says pointedly when they split up.

“Good luck, man,” Posey says. “You have my number, right?”

“I'm going to get drunk on red wine tonight and call all of you to prove I haven't gone crazy,” Brian says darkly.

 

In Derek's car, Dylan sinks down to the floor, wraps his arms around his knees, tries to breathe even.

“Jeff's gonna kill us,” he says.

“What?” Hoechlin says, leaning past Stiles to look at him worriedly. “He stuck us in a GIF. We didn't do anything.”

Dylan laughs.

It's not the Laugh. It's short and sharp and ends with something like a sob and Dylan burying his head in his hands while Stiles' hand finds his shoulder and stays. Hoechlin retracts slowly, settles back against his seat so tense Dylan can sense it without looking up.

“That's not even what I was thinking about,” Dylan says, when he can speak again. “We must have missed half a panel, a cosmic _ton_ of press—” He groans. “The Maze Runner panel. I'm fucked.”

“Do we even have a show anymore?” Posey asks. He's riding shotgun, watching Derek like a movie. “Are we really just gonna go back to work like nothing ever happened?”

“What are we supposed to do?” Hoechlin reasons. “Quit?”

“For the record,” Dylan says, in case this is the beginning of the end, “I love everyone in this car.”

Derek raises an eyebrow in the rear-view mirror.

“Yeah, even you, Judgyface,” Dylan says, crushing his forehead against his arm and using the seat as a pillow. He's suddenly got the worst migraine he's ever had, and he's bone-tired, like he's been shooting crying scenes all day, but with none of the accompanying relief. “I literally liked you before I met you, so your personality isn't a turn-off at all.”

“Hilarious,” Derek says.

 

The answer had been surprisingly obvious, once Dylan thought about it from the right perspective.

You need more than a knock at the door.

You need to know there's someone waiting for you on the other side.

 

By the time Derek parks, Stiles is running his fingers through Dylan's hair, and Derek is watching him, eyes soft, under the guise of checking for oncoming traffic.

Literally everyone in this car is the sweetest person Dylan knows.

He's so nauseous he could cry.

 

In the hotel room, Dylan sprawls out face-down on the first bed he sees and doesn't open his eyes for anything.

“You okay?” Hoechlin says.

“I think someone replaced my brain with Coke and Pop-Rocks,” Dylan says. “If I lift my head from this pillow I’ll probably throw up.”

“Maybe Derek can—” Hoechlin ventures. “You know, help.”

“Yeah, he really needs my stupid little headache on top of everything else,” Dylan mumbles. His eyes are squeezed shut so tight he's starting to see constellations. Unhelpfully, they're spinning. The pillow is cool on his face; he tries to wrap it around his head without actually moving. Moving is a very bad idea. “I'd take a Tylenol if I thought I could swallow anything.”

His throat tastes like he's been sick already.

“We're so screwed,” he moans. “We're gonna quit, and our agents are gonna kill us.”

“ _I'm_ screwed,” Hoechlin clarifies. “You'll be fine. You'll be amazing.”

“Awww, dude,” Dylan says, feeling stupidly warm and fuzzy under the LSD-fueled drum circle banging in his skull. “And shut up. You stole scenes from Tom Hanks when you were like twelve. I hate you. I'm gonna have to go back to making fucking YouTube videos.”

“No one would watch my YouTube videos if I made them.”

“People would watch you get groceries,” Dylan counters. “I saw this thing on Tumblr once. Get groceries, do laundry—Derek Hale having a nice day.” Aaand there goes the ability to swallow without his eyes watering. “Fuck, we need to get him a pizza or a security guard or something.”

“One of those unlimited prepaid Starbucks cards,” Hoechlin says.

“Mmmm,” Dylan agrees. “Some really good weed. That works for werewolves. Wolfsbane-infused, or whatever the thing is.”

“Not with his luck,” Hoechlin says wisely.

“Ugh, you're right, it'll probably kill him.”

And then the tears just start coming. Quick, soundless, stuffing up his nose and throat and trembling his tired bones.

This _sucks_.

Stiles is real, and he hates the show, hates his issues getting blown up and spoon-fed to the masses.

And he's right. He's obviously right.

So Dylan's quitting, then. He owes Stiles at least that much.

He can still see Isaac scrabbling against the cold metal insides of his eyelids, see half a dozen frantic hands dragging him out into the light, trying to warm him up again.

For a few seconds, he tries to get a hold of himself, calm the fuck down, chill the fuck out. Then he just gives up, he just gives in to it, says, “Can you just—” and pulls Hoechlin in against his side like the whole main six used to do, piled together on one bed and feeling so close it puts a lump in your throat.

That's pack, isn't it?

That's what Jeff stole from real people. To make some ridiculous fucking show that just rubs their faces in it.

And these past three years, Dylan's been helping him.

Dylan's version of Stiles, he cared about him. Thought about him, even when they weren't filming. How he'd approach this situation, how he'd feel if this happened, what he'd say.

And now he's real, and he's always been real.

Cutting the fake Stiles out is gonna take a fucking lobotomy.

He can feel Posey hovering in the doorway, even with his eyes closed.

“C'mere,” he says, and edges closer to Hoechlin to make some room. He throws his free arm around Posey's back, breathes easier than he has in months. It's stupid that they ever stopped doing this. “We're family,” he says. “Whatever else happens, we just can't...”

He can't actually even say the words.

God, he's a basket case.

“We won't,” Posey promises.

“Ever,” Dylan says, and tugs him closer.

“We're gonna be best friends for the rest of our lives.”

“Yeah we are.”

“Pack,” Hoechlin mumbles into Dylan's armpit.

“Family,” Dylan says stubbornly. He can't see _pack_ without seeing what they did, what they helped Jeff do.

“Family,” Hoechlin agrees.

“Definitely,” Posey says.

“Good,” Dylan says, and passes out.

 

In an empty auditorium, Jeff Davis and Jennifer Blake are still talking.

The room isn't empty at all, of course, but the space they occupy is sheathed by a thin skin of unreality, something that keeps the crush of energetic fans away without them stopping to wonder why.

None of that explains why none of the crowd but one returning werewolf and the human at his side can make out a word they're saying.

But the truth is, almost no one at all really listens to anything.

There's too much they don't want to hear.

 

“All those people,” Jennifer is saying. “All that pain. You must have taken more than you could ever need by now.”

“Do you have any idea how hard my job is?” Jeff asks. “I'm barely surviving as it is. I'm living on echoes. Reactionary pain. _Feels_. _I'm_ the one who's suffering here. We have to invest in our futures, you know. Everything I take gets put away for later. I can't even enjoy it.”

“You can't even enjoy it,” Jennifer says. “Then what's the point?”

Jeff looks at her.

“You know what, you're right,” he says decisively. “I'm running on fumes. I _deserve_ this.”

He opens his hand.

A dense little pearl hovers over the center of his palm, stretches like blown glass into a nearly translucent globe floating in the air. In it, Jen can see the still-struggling shadow of Isaac, scratching at the walls of the freezer with soft human nails, panicking.

“I didn't actually _kill_ him,” Jeff says, watching him scrabble and scrape at his metal prison. “I mean, come on. He's a _werewolf_. He could have destroyed that freezer. It's called exposure therapy,” he adds, authoritatively.

Jennifer's eyes are very still.

“Show me the others,” she says.

The glass ball spins...

 

...into a glass cave buzzing with shadows, smoky with stale fear.

“You could get lost in here,” Jennifer says. Her voice reverberates around her.

Jeff watches the shadows proudly.

“Tell me about them,” Jennifer says. “Can you find your first?”

 

They weave in and out of smoky tunnels, watch the congealing suffering pile up like snow, coat the walls; here the struggling shadows are pressed together so thick you shiver going past.

“Do you think they can feel it?” Jennifer asks. “Even now?”

The suggestion sets off some kind of avalanche, the world around them expanding and creaking with new weight.

“It never ends, does it,” Jennifer says. “You could never show me everything. It's growing too quickly.”

Jeff threads his fingers through silky condensed pain, grits his teeth and fights to pull his arm free again. The shadows reach for him, surround him...

“You could get lost in here,” Jennifer says. Her voice echoes past her, into every distant corridor, a whole frozen city of blinding white on white, of distant shadows reaching out from their own separate darknesses to find each other.

 _You could get lost in here_...

“Jennifer?” Jeff says. He turns, turns again, tries to follow the sound of her voice, but it reverberates from everywhere, a new universe branching out and binding him inside it. “Jennifer!”

It's so cold...

 _This is my world,_ Jeff snaps, trying to shake himself back to earth. _My vision. I'm not lost._

_I just need to go... that way._

The snow falls in gushes now, in slushy wet ice that smells like salt, in cold dry flurries falling down the back of his thin t-shirt, in icy needles stabbing his skin.

_I'm not lost._

The wind whips the snow around him like a frozen sandstorm.

Jeff shivers.

_I just need to..._

The new branches shift into deep wilderness, stretching out for miles. Jeff's fingers go numb.

The shadows are indistinct, overlapping, merging together, but there's a horrible suggestion of a grin.

 _This is my world,_ Jeff thinks. He just has to remember that. _This is my world._

The wind rushes past him, a thousand trapped souls dancing free, spinning in dizzying arcs. Laughter echoes into the distance, bounces off the sound of distant footfalls coming closer.

The pale branches reach out icy fingers, curl together, tighter, tighter.

The reply comes in a voice like the back of your own mind turning on you.

__

 

At the end of the day, a story is just a story.

The truth is that Dylan got sick, and the Tylers went with him to the hospital. He's been working himself to the bone for too long, it's no wonder. He tweeted a picture from the hospital with a sad face and a thousand apologies for letting the fans down. Look, you can see the exhaustion all through him. No one's gonna hold it against him, or the rest of them for worrying about him, skipping the rest of the convention to stay with him.

It just shows how close they really are.

And if a few fans have some videos, some very confusing panel videos...

Well. Cameras malfunction all the time.

 

“It's not their fault,” Stiles reasons as the credits roll on the ninth episode of season three. “They didn't know we were real.”

“It's our _lives_ ,” Jackson argues. He kicks at Stiles' hip with socked feet, trying to force him to sit perfectly on only one couch cushion.

“You're just bitter because you got written out,” Lydia says as Stiles lays his head in Jackson's lap and smirks up at him. “It's not that bad, once you watch it.”

“It sounds worse than it is,” Derek agrees, hovering threateningly over Stiles' legs, eyebrows high.

“It's just weird,” Stiles says, giving in and sitting up to curl against Derek's shoulder and give Jackson the stink-eye. “But not bad. Mostly.”

“How old is Derek supposed to be?” Scott asks, cross-legged and perfectly content at the low, round, bright yellow table that once served as the meeting place of the Beacon Hill Library's Sunday Reading Club, eating long-cold microwaved nachos. “It's like the biggest mystery.”

“Erica, too,” Lydia says, stealing a handful. Allison wrinkles her nose and reaches for a Red Vine. “And the _lunar cycle_.”

“I don't always lose fights,” Derek adds.

“And I've never killed a vending—”

“It's alright for you,” Erica cuts in from Boyd's salvaged recliner. “You weren't _killed off_.”

Stiles shuts his mouth.

“What, were we not _fan favorites_ or something?”

“Tumblr is 'still not over it,'” Boyd says, not looking up from the screen of his iPhone.

“See?” Erica demands, putting her palm up. Boyd high-fives her, still reading, and laces their fingers together. “They fucking love us. We should be in the goddamn _title sequence_.”

“It was actually kind of nice,” Allison says. “Seeing Isaac again.”

“Me and Scott being awesome,” Stiles agrees.

“The middle of season two was the best,” Scott says. “Everyone coming together.”

“Yeah, it got way too dark after that,” Stiles says.

“I never knew anyone named Paige,” Derek clarifies.

“Yeah, well, show Derek gets all the girls,” Stiles says.

“Gets all the girls killed, apparently,” Derek says. Stiles rubs his arm consolingly. “And stalks teenagers.”

“It's the Edward Cullen effect,” Stiles reasons.

Derek raises his eyebrows.

“Shows how much you care, or something.”

“Is that what it shows.”

“Anyway, Scott's the one coming in through the window,” Stiles says.

“I did that _once_.”

“You know, you guys never got to meet your actors,” Stiles says.

“We were just a little bit busy stopping a zombie invasion,” Allison reminds him.

“And that's important,” Stiles agrees. “But we should take a trip. All of us. Have a real face-to-face-to-face with the whole cast.”

“Only if we can get our actors back on the show,” Erica says. Boyd hums his agreement. “I'm nobody's nobody.”

“Someone has to look after the territory,” Derek reminds them.

“Can't Jen—“

“I'm the alpha,” Derek says. “I should be here.”

“Aye aye, Captain Spoilsport.”

“Anyway, Jen needs a break from all this. She's an Empath, it's too much.”

“What, us?”

“She says the trees talk to her here,” Derek says. “She dealt with Davis alone. Power like that always has a price.”

Scott swallows the last of his nachos, licks salt off his fingers. “We should do something,” he says. “A non-pack something, to take her mind off it. Like bowling, or—What does she like?”

“Libraries,” Derek says.

“Well that's easy,” Stiles says, waving his hands, Vanna White style.

“All Kristen Stewart movies that don't have vampires in them,” Derek continues.

Allison nods. “She's actually very underrated.”

“Red wine.”

“Ooh, we should get her in touch with Brian.”

“She's an Empath,” Derek says pointedly.

“So?”

“And he's—volatile.”

“So it could be good practice,” Stiles says. “At turning it off. Or down, or something. It could be good for her, brah. Not everyone's as emotionally repressed as you.”

“I'm not your—” Derek's jaw works.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. 

Derek sighs. "I'm not going to say it."

“C'mon, live a little,” Stiles says, throwing an encouraging arm around Derek's shoulders. 

“So it's decided, then,” Lydia interrupts. “The show should keep going.”

“Why wouldn't it?” Allison asks.

“My actor and Scott's actor were planning to quit,” Stiles says. “After finding out we were real, and what Davis did—”

“Tyler Posey asked me if we hate him,” Derek says.

“Who?” Jackson asks.

“ _Scott's actor_ ,” says everyone else as one.

“Seriously, he's the main character,” Stiles says.

“Maybe I just don't like his face,” Jackson says.

“Of course you don't,” Stiles reasons. “It's not a mirror.”

“Ha ha ha,” Jackson says sarcastically. “You should be a comedian. I hear Daniel Tosh is looking for an opener who'll make him look really funny, you'd be perfect.”

“Aww, you're so thoughtful, boo,” Stiles says, patting his back and stealing the remote from behind him.

“Aren't they under contract?” Allison asks.

“I really don't think that matters to them anymore,” Stiles says. “Dylan was freaking out, actually getting _sick_ over it, and Posey wanted to, like, punch Davis in the face.”

“They're good people,” Derek says quietly.

“Yeah, they are,” Stiles says. “It's not their fault Davis is a Dementor.” He plays with the remote idly. “It's a good show. My dad's actor, and Dylan—”

“Crystal Reed is pretty incredible,” Allison agrees.

“I need to make a call,” Lydia says. “Stiles, give me your phone.”

 

They're putting the breaks on shooting season three for a while, giving Dylan some time to rest up. Or maybe they're trying to locate the suddenly incommunicado Jeff Davis. The network is floundering—the threat of losing three main characters and the head writer at the same time is the kind of thing that would put any show six feet under, but Teen Wolf is the face of the new MTV, the face of a brand associated with something other than 90s music videos and shameless not-quite-reality shows. Teen Wolf is the first real step to MTV transitioning into a _serious network_.

Or at least a sister network to the CW.

Teen Wolf is MTV's finger on the pulse, their gateway to the thirteen to seventeens, the eighteen to twenty-fours. Teen Wolf is—

“I know,” Tyler Posey says. “I'm sorry. I just can't do this anymore.”

“It's not about the network,” Dylan O'Brien promises. “You've been great. Really supportive. And the whole cast is amazing.”

“We just can't play these characters,” Tyler Hoechlin says.

“Let's talk about this,” MTV management executive Zach Gonzalez says. “Is this about the Sterek thing? Because we can be open to it if you are.”

“It's not about the Sterek thing,” Dylan says.

“Or we can shut it down completely,” Zach backtracks. “We'll never mention it again! Not even as a joke!”

“It's really not about the Sterek thing,” Tyler Hoechlin says.

“Then what is it? You know, we're not really in a position to be adjusting budgets right now, but under these circumstances we _might_ be able to move a few things around and offer each of you a small raise—”

“That's not it either,” Tyler Posey says.

“And a larger amount, up front, let's call it a—a loyalty bonus—”

“It's not about the money,” Tyler Hoechlin says, looking a little pained.

“Of course not,” Zach lies. “It never is. The cast, you said something about the cast, now between you and me, Dylan, not everyone has been completely signed on for season four yet, and I’m sure we can take a look at who exactly—”

“No!” Dylan says, stunned. “No way, I'm not asking you to fire anyone!”

Zach seizes this like a drowning man suddenly buoyed up by the tits of a gorgeous lifeguard.

“But you are,” he says, barely managing not to grin ear to ear. “The show will collapse without you. Hundreds of people will lose their jobs. I know you don't want that—”

“Of course I don't,” Dylan says, stricken.

“You're very lucky, you know,” Zach continues. “You've got some money stored away now. Not everyone you work with has a back-up plan.”

“Shit,” Dylan says, tugging at his hair. “Shit, what if we—”

“We could do a different show,” Tyler Posey offers. “With all the same cast and crew, just playing—”

“Can you find me a loyal audience to watch it, or just lose MTV a few million dollars putting it all together before people see the previews and say, 'Oh look, it's the cast of Teen Wolf, living in a house over the summer, seeing what happens when people stop being polite—'”

“We're not doing a reality show,” Tyler Hoechlin says.

“Alright,” Zach says. “Thirty seconds, pitch me your pilot.”

“What?”

“Sell me the show that will keep or increase the audience you have now. What's the premise? What's the point? Why should anyone care?”

“Oh,” Tyler Hoechlin says. “Um, okay. What if, uh, what if Batman—”

“Licensing would be impossible, next,” Zach interrupts.

“Oh,” Tyler says, flushing. “Right. What about, uh, cowboys, but in the future—”

“Joss Whedon already wrote Firefly, and nobody watched it until it was canceled. Next.”

“Robots, who, um—”

“Who develop free will!” Dylan says. “Like, evolve it somehow! But nobody believes it—”

“Or at least they don't want to,” Tyler Hoechlin says, enthused, “because using them is too convenient—”

“Except some people who think they're gonna become killing maniacs, like people who have seen Terminator too many times, so they start killing them off first—”

“And scientists are trying to figure out how this even could've happened, because this could be the start to explaining, like, _life itself_ —” Tyler Posey adds.

“Dude!” Dylan says, impressed.

“Enough,” Zach snaps. Tyler Hoechlin shuts his mouth, deflated. “What network do you think this is? We're not trying to reach Stephen Hawking, we're trying to reach _teenagers_. Think young, think sexy, think—”

“Don't think?” Dylan suggests.

Tyler Hoechlin laughs.

“Teen Wolf isn't just shirtless guys and hookups either,” Tyler Posey says.

“Of course not,” Zach lies. “Of course it's deep and subtle and meaningful. But what makes your show—your _current_ show—special is the way it uses those elements to draw people in, and then _surprises_ them—”

“You're totally bullshitting us right now, aren't you,” Dylan says.

“Listen,” Zach says. “The show you have now, for whatever reason, is a gold mine. The chances of your robot pitch succeeding? You might as well buy everyone you work with a lottery ticket. Don't fuck with a good formula.”

Dylan looks at Tyler Posey. Tyler Posey looks at Tyler Hoechlin. Tyler Hoechlin looks at Dylan.

“We just can't,” Dylan says.

“Sorry,” Tyler Hoechlin says.

“I still think the robot idea could be awesome,” Tyler Posey says.

“You're making a huge mistake,” Zach says. “Most actors your age would kill to have what you're throwing away.”

“We know,” Tyler Posey says.

“We really do,” Dylan says.

“It was great while it lasted,” Tyler Hoechlin says.

Zach tries not to panic. “If there's really nothing I can say—”

Dylan's phone rings.

“Sorry,” he says, fishing for it. “I thought I turned it off.”

“You did,” a voice says from Dylan's pocket. “Now shut up and listen.”

Zach stares as Dylan takes out his silenced phone and examines it from all sides. Suddenly, the thing flares to life, and Holland Roden appears on the screen.

“Holland?” Dylan says, as if it could be anyone else.

“Guess again,” the girl says.

“ _Lydia?_ ” Tyler Posey asks, wide-eyed.

Zach frowns. “What the—”

“As much as we appreciate this boneheaded gesture,” Lydia Martin says, “I have a proposal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no jeff davises were actually harmed in the making of this fic.

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from my ff.net account. As usual, my tumblr is highwaytohoech. I'd love to know what you think :)


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